Paradise: The Masters of The Order Novel Two (28 page)

“Why not?”

“Do I really have to spell it out to you of all people?”

“That’s a cop out, Jacques. You’re a guy who doesn’t know the meaning of the word failure. So beat the shit out of your toys, cry yourself a river, get stone drunk, but then get your ass up off this floor and go get her. Marry her or I will.”

Jacques shoved him and Jerard toppled over. “Over my dead body.”

“That’s more like it.” Jerard said with a self-satisfied grin and reached for the bottle.

“You allowed to drink that?”

“I’m a smack addict, not an alcoholic.”

Jacques gave Jerard a skeptical once-over. “If you say so. What’s next for you, Jerard?”

“You want to switch the conversation to me, fine, but we’re not finished talking about you. I’ve decided to move to New York for a while, make a fresh start. Darion is setting me up in his gallery there.”

“Take the apartment,” Jacques interjected. “Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

“You’ve done too much for me already, Jacques.”

Two could play at the hard ass game and Jacques wasn’t about to let Jerard think that three thousand miles meant he wasn’t part of his life going forward. “And I don’t plan to stop.”

The reaction said that was the last thing Jerard wanted. “Without you, I wouldn’t be alive. Thank you, Jacques.”

He nodded and Jerard went on, “I came to tell you something before I go.” Jerard raised the bottle to his lips as if he was going to take a sip, paused and lowered it. “I’m sorry, Jacques. So damn sorry.”

Jacques tried to blink back the tears welling in his eyes. “God, you scared the shit of me.” He leaned forward to put a hand to the back of Jerard’s neck and pressed their foreheads together.

“I didn’t mean all those things I said in Monaco, Jacques. I know I haven’t earned it, but if you can ever forgive me, it would mean so much. More than you know.” Remorse laced with a heart-wrenching self-loathing echoed in Jerard’s plea.

“I don’t need time.” He pulled Jerard into his arms, stroking his hair and kissing his head as both their tears started to fall. Slowly, ever so slowly, the hurt of what they’d been through faded and the bond between them sparked back to life. With an exhausted, cleansing breath, Jacques said, “I forgive you, Jerard.”

Jerard’s arms locked tighter. “Now forgive yourself.”

With the words, something startling happened. Tears of regret transformed into tears of repentance. Jerard had earned his wisdom the hard way and Jacques would be a fool not to learn from it. With Jerard’s arms anchoring him, he let go of the past and forgave himself. For the first time in his life, Jacques Meszaros was going to do it right.

But enough with them both crying like school girls. He gave Jerard another shove that sent him reeling. “If you ever pull that crap again, it’s not me you’ll have to worry about, you know that right?” Jacques smiled and said, “Mrs. Meszaros will kick your ass from here to New York and back.”

Jerard gave an exaggerated shudder as if he was terrified. “So I guess it’s stone cold sober for me.” He pointed to the door. “Stop lollying about, pussy. I said, ‘go get her.’”

The hope in Jerard’s eyes started Jacques’s feet moving. As he walked, words from long ago whispered through his mind.
Be mindful. God reclaims His angels too soon. Those who squander time lose paradise
.

Good Lord, those who squander time lose paradise
.

Jacques broke into a sprint heading for the stairwell. No time to wait for the elevator. He’d wasted too much already. There wasn’t a second more to spare.

*****

Isabella pulled open the heavy door of Sacré Cœur Basilica, grateful for the cool air that blasted over her face. There was something about the air inside of a church, especially an ancient one like this. It was always a gentle cool that held the breath of something holy. She needed to calm down, slow her breathing. She took a deep breath and let the peace of this place wash through her.

Dr. Boucher really put it to her. She could see the confident glimmer in his eyes when he posed his little challenge. And damn, er, darn, if it didn’t work. She marched straight out of his office and ended up here. To meet his challenge, she needed help. Hell, er, heck, she needed divine intervention.

And a bar of soap to wash out my filthy mouth.

She walked along the side aisle, her heels clicking on the marble floor as she searched for his statue. She found it at the back in a very dark part of the cathedral. The only light came from the candles flickering at his feet. St. Jude stared at her through the altar gate. In the dim light, the plaster statue looked eerily real, his eyes alive with the glittering flames.

St. Jude was called the patron saint of hopeless causes, but when she was a little girl, the parish priest told her that a better title would be the patron saint of hopeful causes. She’d always thought of him that way and prayed to St. Jude every day when things were bad for Teo. He’d come through for her brother. Maybe he would for her too, but in her case, the more popular moniker worked better. She was hopeless.

She dropped a coin into the box, the metal clanking as it fell, and lit a candle. She didn’t know where to begin, so she just started babbling to the candlelit statue staring down at her. “Hello, St. Jude. I’m Isabella and I need your help. I’ve fallen in love with a very special person and I want a future with him, but, well, it’s just that I thought, maybe, possibly, somehow, you could help me find the hope to...”

Mid-rant her cell phone rang, shattering the hallowed hush in the cathedral.

“Isabella, where are you?” Jacques's panting breath whisked through the line.

“Are you alright, Jacques? You sound funny,” she whispered.

“Where, Isabella,” he demanded.

“At the basilica in Montmartre. I stopped in to light a candle, um, for a special intention.”

She glanced up at St. Jude and her breath caught.

“Stay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Before she could ask what was going on, the line disengaged.

It was ridiculous, totally ridiculous, but she could swear that St. Jude had smiled at her. She knelt and offered her silent prayers. She wasn’t sure if the feeling that came over her was hope, but whatever it was, it made her feel stronger.

As she stepped into the sunshine, the sight of Jacques’s black jacket flying behind him as he sprinted up the marble stairs toward her didn’t hurt either. Desperate to feel his arms around her, she started running down. They met in the middle, throwing their arms around each other with so much force they almost tumbled down the steps.

People, mostly tourists, scurried in and out of the historic church behind them, but there were only two people in the world just then. Her and Jacques.

“I have something to tell you,” he began.

“Me too.”

She could see him push aside his urgency and focus on her. “You first, Isabella. Always you first,” he said.

She took his hand and pulled him over to a stone pillar, sitting them both down next to it. “I haven’t been honest with you, Jacques. I’m sorry for that, but until today, I haven’t had the courage to tell you the truth.” She scanned his face, but the expression was unreadable so she forced herself to go on. “Do you remember that little problem I had?”

He nodded, his sharp eyes locked on, but his lips remained sealed. God, the man had incredible control. She would have been hurtling twenty questions by now.

“Well it wasn’t actually a little problem.” As she looked into his encouraging eyes, something inside her jarred as if Jacques had reached into her soul and gave it a little nudge. She felt her lips part, heard the words she didn’t want to say fill the space between them. “I was diagnosed with cancer.”

Jacques's eyes went wide and his fists clenched. “Diagnosed and treated?” was all he said.

“Yes, by Dr. Boucher at the Institut. I’m in remission. It’s been over six months so it could be permanent,” she said the last phrase tentatively as if speaking it aloud tempted fate. She cleared her throat and continued. “Dr. Boucher says I should be fine, but...”

Jacques threw his arms around her. She pushed against his chest so she could watch his eyes while she finished the sentence.

“…there are no guarantees, Jacques. My future is unsure and that means our future is unsure. I pray for a long, happy life with you. I pray every day, but prayers aren’t always answered in the way we expect.”

Jacques, who’d been perfectly calm while she dropped the “c” bomb on him, looked like she’d slapped him. “What?”

“What, what?”

“What did you just say about prayers?”

“I pray for a long, happy life, but prayers aren’t always answered in the way we expect,” she repeated herself feeling very confused.

He smiled at her and said, “But they are always answered. Fifty years of a happy life.” Then he collapsed against the marble steps in a fit of laugher. He was laughing so hard that tears started to fall from his eyes.

She dropped a fist onto his chest. “What the fuck, Jacques? I tell you I have cancer, that I might have no future and you laugh.”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down into his arms. “I’m not laughing at you, Isabella. I’m laughing because your prayers were just answered.”

“Don’t make fun of me, Jacques. I have a lot of faith, but…”

“And now, thanks to you, so do I. I have a story to tell you, Isabella. Listen and then decide whether I’m making fun of you.”

*****

The world went black.

When Isabella said the word “cancer,” the earth dropped from beneath him, leaving him suspended in agony. It took every single drop of his strength to force a bland expression and not release the blood curdling scream that was burning in his throat.

Isabella would die and he was, yet again, powerless to stop it. He’d squandered time and paradise would be lost. He wanted to die right there on the steps of the basilica, but he would go on with her until she found peace. Then and only then, he would end his miserable, worthless life.

Then she said it, “Prayers aren’t always answered in the way we expect,” and he was saved. God had answered Isabella’s prayers through the words of an angel sent to him in the guise of an old widow.

Fifty years of a happy life
. The voice of the lady he’d met on that horrible day chasing Jerard merged with Isabella’s voice. He hadn’t recognized her then, but he did now. She was Isabella as an old woman thanking him for fifty years of the happy life they would share.

Isabella wasn’t going to die. She was going to marry him and they were going to have fifty years. Fifty happy years. Paradise would not be lost. He hadn’t squandered too much time. He couldn’t contain his joy.

As he relayed his story, the faith lighting Isabella’s eyes burned so bright, it lit the whole world.

*****

Jacques’s story was a miracle. A miracle that gave her the faith to finally say what she’d waited too long to say.

“I love you, Jacques.”

A humble, shocked smile graced his stunning face. Then he closed his eyes and said, “Say it again.”

“I love you.” She threw her hands over her head and shouted to the whole of Paris laid out before them, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” The future burned brighter with each loud proclamation of her love.

Several people stopped to stare. Some smiled. Some clapped. A teenage boy pumped his fist in the air in salute.

She smiled a dreamy smile at her sexy man and teased, “Let’s see you top that, bad boy.”

Never one to be bested, Jacques smiled back, but his smile was anything but dreamy. He pulled out the smile that got him anything he wanted and what he wanted usually made her whole body smile. Then he cupped her cheeks and kissed her. Not a ‘
we’re in the middle of a public place with a hundred tourists watching
’ subtle kind of kiss. An ‘
I love you, I love you, I love you right back
’ screaming kind of kiss. By the time he broke the seal of their lips, she was dizzy.

He raised a playful eyebrow and said, “How about this? We’re getting married. Today.” He dropped onto one knee - right there on the steps of Sacré Cœur Basilica - took her hand and asked, “Isabella Honora Rey, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She was so shocked, all she could muster in reply was, “
Joder
, Jacques.”

“Guess I topped it if all my potty mouth girl has to say is ‘fuck, Jacques,’” he said with a chuckle against her knuckles. Then those hypnotic eyes rolled up as he added, “But I’d rather hear you say yes, Isabella.”

Just to be sure he understood her answer, she gave it to him in three languages. “Yes.
Sí
.
Oui
.” She said it over and over.

He lifted her up to the sound of cheers all around them and carried her into the church.

Thirty minutes later, they were man and wife.

No marriage license.

No baptismal certificates.

No problem.

After all, no one says no to Isabella Rey’s husband.